Blood on Blade
by SUPRNTRAL LVR
Summary: AU of Pelennor Fields. What if Eowyn was not helped by Merry, but instead by Legolas when the Witch King made his attack? The only problem is that a single Elf is no match for the Witch King... With Legolas wounded, how will the Fellowship cope faced with the possible loss of one of their closest members?
1. Chapter 1

**I have lots of work to do, so naturally, I'm returning to FanFiction. I'm trying to find some inspiration to finish my incomplete story Aftermath. Hopefully this will help. It's only going to be a short one, but I hope it reads alright - I don't know much about the canon of Lord of the Rings.**

**This is strictly movie-verse, since I haven't read the books. Please forgive the timing too - in this RotK fanfiction, Aragorn and his Army of the Dead arrive at the Battle of Pelennor Fields to join the fight earlier than they do in the movie to allow events to progress as I have written them. ****The story picks up as Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and their allies descend from the boats onto the battlefield.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings, unfortunately.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence (of course)**

* * *

The clash of steel against steel chased away any weariness Legolas felt from their recent journey to the Kingdom of the Dead, and brought fire-fuelled adrenaline to replace it. Flexing his arm, he threw back the Orc that had launched itself at him and before it could regain its footing, he sliced cross-ways with one of his twin blades and neatly slit its throat. Within his chest his heart leapt with the thrill of battle, sending a pleasant tremor through his legs. For hours he had been pacing, waiting, scanning the horizon with his keen, blue-eyed gaze for signs of war, aching to rejoin his fellows in the fight to defend Gondor, to fight back against the plague of evil creeping into Middle Earth, to send a message in a firm punch through Sauron's gleeful arrogance. Now, at last, he could rejoin the battle which said, plain as ink on paper, _No. This land is ours, and you cannot take it. _A grin chased across his face as he locked eyes with Gimli, now ripping his axe from the skull of a fallen Orc. The Dwarf glanced over his broad shoulder and cast a laugh in Legolas' direction.

"Five already, Elf!"

Legolas shook his head. "Foolish," he called back, following his companions into the fray. "Have you not learned by now, you tree stump, that I can best you no matter what the number?"

Gimli bristled at 'tree stump' and began to attack his enemies with renewed vigour, hurtling a stream of insults into the air as he did so. Legolas caught the phrase 'pointy-eared blister' before his ears were filled once more with the shriek of clanging swords and the howls of Orc war cries. His twin blades sang as they cut through the air, blood flying in their wake. He plunged both into the chest of an Orc in front of him, ripped them free, span about to face an Orc to his left, smoothly wove a single blade through its eye-socket and out again, leapt over its buckling form and rammed his elbow into the face of another oncoming foe. His gaze lifted to the nearing, lumbering shadows of the Oliphants, to the waves upon waves of Orc and Man locked in combat. His stomach flipped a little - this was an unlikely battle to win. But they had the Dead Army. They had a secret weapon.

His eyes fell on Aragorn as he removed the head of another Orc from its shoulders. The Man was fending off Orcs left and right, but like Legolas his gaze perpetually flitted towards the smoking walls of Gondor. He glanced over his shoulder, looked to Gimli and then to Legolas.

"The Riders of Rohan!" he called, his voice broken by the screams of Orcs and the unearthly hisses of the Dead Army streaming past them. "Their numbers are few!"

He was right. Far across the battlefield, somewhat further away from the main siege of Gondor's walls, Legolas' keen eye could pick out where the mass of Orcs faded into green cloaks, most of which were now trodden into the ground. Horses heaved on the ground, legs kicking, fallen riders cast aside by the pumping hooves. The Riders of Rohan were attacking with no less fire than before, but their numbers were dwindling rapidly. The Oliphants kicked great floods of horses into the dust, ground struggling bodies into the floor mercilessly.

"The King! Theodan King!"

Legolas looked up as Aragorn shouted, pushing his knives between the ribs of two separate Orcs as he met the Man's gaze. Aragorn's eyes drilled into him.

"Legolas, find the King! See how he fares! Gimli and I will search for Gandalf."

Legolas nodded and raced into the midst of the battle without looking back. He wove an easy path through the throng of Orcs, ducking their blows and taking the chance to land a hit when the opportunity presented itself. He headed for the far side of the battlefield, towards the area Theodan King's troops had entered at. The scent of blood and dust and metal rushed into his face as he ran and his eyes began to water.

Abruptly a shadow fell across him, and he barely had time to divert his course before a great, leathery foot hammered into the earth nearby. He craned his neck back and threw himself aside as the Oliphant's great trunk swept downwards, knocking over several Orcs in its way. Legolas took in its destination - a large group of Riders still fighting nearby - and made his decision quickly.

As the foot began to lift he pushed his knives into their sheaths, ran at it, and pushed off from the ground, snatching hold of the scattered arrows embedded in the Oliphant's thick skin. Instantly the world began to swing violently from side to side as the Oliphant moved, and Legolas took a moment to grip on, orientate himself, plan a path upwards. Then he began to scale the side of the great brute, arrows providing a neat track to follow. As he swung up onto its back he found himself greeted with a swinging sword and ducked, shoved hard with his shoulder to throw his assailant off into the open air. The movement set him off balance and for a split second he faltered - and yet still his eye caught the flash of metal as an archer on the Oliphant's back whipped about and let loose an arrow. Even as he threw himself backwards he knew he was too slow, barely managing to grab a handhold before a flash of pain shot through his leg. It was unexpectedly agonising and his grip faltered, sending him slipping down the side of the Oliphant.

Half blind, snatching wildly, he felt leather burn his palm and clung on. Squinting through the pain, he summarised he was hanging from the side of the beast, clinging to its harness, and without a second thought his hand sought one of his twin blades. With two fast slashes the archers abroad the Oliphant were cut free and began to slide towards the earth, dragging Legolas back up onto the Oliphant's back. Without giving himself a chance to think, Legolas regained his footing and span around, swapping his blade for his bow, and landed three arrows in the base of the Oliphant's skull. It went down with a deafening scream, and he leapt from its back as it neared the ground.

He landed hard on his knees and couldn't stop a groan of pain escaping. He rose unsteadily, breathless, brushed with dust from the melee. His heart shuddered in his chest, both from the thrill of the attack and from the pain throbbing through his leg. He could feel a hot dampness against his skin and glanced down, his hand closing over the shaft of the arrow protruding from his thigh. If he hadn't moved, it might have pierced higher and hit a lung. A lucky escape. He cast a glance back over his shoulder to be greeted with the sight of the Dead Army swarming over the Oliphant and its fallen Archers. Satisfied, he pushed the pain out of his mind and resumed his search for Theodan King. His leg protested but he forced himself into an unsteady run. This was a war. There was no room for hesitation.

He would not fail Aragorn.

He pushed his way past Orcs and Men alike, ears pricked for the voice of the King. The addition of the Dead Army had done wonders for their chances - the green mist swept across the battlefield like a river, slaying all in its wake. Legolas raised his bow and let an arrow fly to take down an approaching Orc, ducked to avoid a blow coming in from his side. He realised with a soft flicker of relief that Aragorn and Gimli would certainly be safe today - surrounded by the Ghosts, they had less of a chance of being overwhelmed by Orcs. A part of him that was listening always for the call of his kinsmen relaxed slightly. Until he saw a horrifying shadow sweep down from the sky and, with a piercing shriek, plunge into the battle. A cry went up from the battle and Riders scattered, one almost bowling Legolas over.

"The King! The King is fallen!"

The words sent panic through Legolas' stomach. He headed towards the great, dark spectre bearing down on the Riders, all too aware that he had not the skill to defeat a Nazgul and its Dark Rider. Orcs shoved their way into his path, gibbering and howling, the presence of their Commander filling them with renewed vigour. One sent a sword hurtling towards his head and Legolas had to hurl himself into a roll to avoid it, rocking up to his feet behind the Orc as he retrieved his knife. His leg seared once more and he held his breath as he sliced a clean line down the Orc's back, swung his arm to lop off an arm that reached for him.

"The King! Theodan has fallen!"

The cry still flew from the mouths of Riders around him as he struggled forwards, attempting to regain control of his breathing. If the King was still alive, Legolas must reach him before he died. Aragorn had charged him to find the King, and find the King he would. As he drew closer to the Witch King and his prey, the Nazgul abruptly reared and keeled over, neck flopping grotesquely, headless. Someone had killed it. And as he fought his way forwards, blood flying from his blades, he took in a single soldier standing between a fallen white horse and the rising Witch King. Legolas recognised the form of King Theodan pinned beneath his horse, lying motionless in the dust. Dread filled his heart. The King had indeed fallen. And yet...

As he plunged his sword into the neck of an approaching foe and turned to gut another, he kept one eye on the figure now ducking to avoid the Witch King's lethal mace. The soldier moved quickly, lightly, almost delicately... fair hair was beginning to come loose from beneath the helmet... Legolas' eyes narrowed as he avoided a blow and pressed closer, his keen gaze picking out small, pale features as the soldier twisted away from the Witch King and lost her balance...

_Her _balance...

"Lady Eowyn!" He breathed her name, filled with disbelief. He saw her in his minds eye, calm, collected, standing at her father's side, a princess... but he had also caught a glimpse of her practising, her sword cleaving the air like a snake. And of course she had come, of course she had refused to stay behind and sew like the other maidens. She had joined the battle, and even now was defending her father's body.

But the Witch King was advancing on her, and there was only so long she could dodge his blows.

"Lady Eowyn!"

This time he shouted louder, forcing his way forwards with even greater determination. Orcs flooded his path, regrouping around their leader, and he cut them down as fast as he could. Another enemy jarred the arrow shaft still embedded in his leg, and Legolas let out a savage cry as he plunged his knife through the skull of the offending Orc. He shoved another aside and flew onwards, even as Eowyn's well-timed manoeuvres failed her. The Witch King raised his mace, and this time it slammed into her shield with a shattering crack. The force threw her to the ground and she landed against her father's horse, holding her shield-arm to her chest. The Witch King bore down on her, lifted its mace, a malicious hiss escaping the darkness where its face should have been.

Legolas sheathed his knife and reached for his bow and arrow. In one fluid movement he leapt over the horse and let loose an arrow, aiming straight for the Witch King's face. His enemy instinctively moved backwards, out of the line of fire, and Legolas landed between Eowyn and the monster. He nocked another arrow, levelled it at its head. He could already feel the presence of the Witch King seeping into his limbs, feel its evil bearing down on him. But he planted himself there, blood trickling heavily down his leg, the arrow true to its mark.

"She will not be your next victim, Witch King," he said, his words clipped and quiet. "You will not touch her."

The Witch King drew itself up before him, darkness emanating from its form. The metal of its armour and harsh, spiked crown seemed to scream with the agony of those it had killed, and its black robes snaked through the air like tendrils of smoke. Its great, empty face gaped, a soft hiss of mockery whispering from the darkness. Words slipped from its rusted helmet.

"Foolish Elf."

Legolas' hands were shaking as he let another arrow fly. It bounced off the Witch King's shoulder like a leaf, repelled as if by a magnet. He knew he would not live through this fight, and yet he snatched another from his quiver, nocked it, aimed, fired, almost in a frenzy of slow-building terror. He could feel cold sweat prickling on his temples. The Witch King let its mace fall and drew slowly from its belt a long, narrow sword.

"You will die as your forefathers have died," the voice whispered. "You will fall here, and no creature alive will remember your name but the maggots that feast on your bones."

That voice sent gooseflesh rippling over Legolas' skin. It felt as though the voice spoke in his own head, and his mind flashed with horrific images as its hiss seared his ears. The dead Elves, row upon row of them, bloodied and beaten on the walls of Helms Deep; great, glistening spiders scuttling forwards out of the dark; and there, in the back of his mind where he always kept her, the clear blue gaze of his mother as her face grew slowly vacant and empty with the pallor of death-

His hands were numb, and he realised dimly that they had faltered and dropped his bow.

With fumbling fingers, he tore his knives from their sheaths and stumbled clear of the Witch King's first blow. A merciless cackle filled his ears as he staggered backwards, movements sluggish. He couldn't think. His head was packed with nightmarish images, his ears filled with the roar of his own blood. Fear screamed in every panting breath he took. How had Eowyn lasted so long? How had she managed?

The Witch King's sword was flying towards him. He brought up both of his blades to block the attack and gasped as the knives span out of his grip and away. The Witch King's helmet's gaping, dark mouth filled his vision and he threw himself away barely in time. His bad leg buckled. But fiercely, with the desperation of a final stand, he regained his balance and span to face his enemy, reaching for his smaller hunting knife. He pulled it free and, as the creature rushed in on him, aimed for the join between shoulder and head -

Razor agony exploded in his chest. Pain as he had never felt it, pain that felt like Death's own hand reaching into him and closing a fist over his heart. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, his very soul pierced with shards of evil. His vision was gone and his heart beat was pounding in his ears like a battle drum, accompanied dimly by the distant laughter of the Witch King...

And then the sword ripped free and Legolas' body was set alight. His strength crumbled around him like towers of sand. His legs gave out and deposited him heavily on the ground like a rag doll. And worst of all, a sound left his lips that he didn't even know he could make. He was screaming, screaming as if he had been set on fire, as if he had been plunged underwater, as if his head was burning. He felt tears forcing themselves from his eyes, which he realised with a jolt of terror were wide open, even though he could see nothing. Words flew through his mind like passing birds, far away in the sky.

_Goheno nin, adar... adar... Gin iallon, goheno nin..._

The words ran like a stream through his mind, again and again, closely followed by great waves of dark pain. He blinked hard once, twice, and blurry images came into focus. Eowyn was on her feet, her sword raised.

_"I am no man."_

The Witch King was crumpling, contorting like a crushed toy. Eowyn dropped to the ground once more as Legolas' vision blanked out once more. He felt his whole body convulse violently, setting free another of those unearthly, unholy screams from his lips. The scream sounded distant, almost soft now. Chilling darkness was swallowing him up piece by piece, his soul trembling, shattering...

He had always expected to see his mother's face as he died. Perhaps smiling at him, perhaps welcoming him into her arms. And yet all he could see was his father. His father looking out into the dawn, his father steepling his fingers together in thought...

_Adar... G-Galo Anor erin râd gîn, Adar... Adar, goheno..._

His mind was on fire. His soul was on fire. And as he tumbled into horrific, freezing oblivion, he knew he was still screaming.

**Elvish Words:**

Father - Adar

forgive me - Goheno nin

May the sun shine on your path - Galo Anor erin râd gîn

I beg of you - Gin iallon

**Thank you for reading, and please do review if you have the time or the inclination. I would also appreciate any corrections for mistakes I have made regarding the canon. Hope you all enjoyed :)**

**Regards,**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews, appreciate it :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings, unfortunately.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence (of course)**

* * *

Eowyn felt the last of her strength leave her as the Witch King collapsed. She followed him to the dirt, falling to her knees with a gasp as jets of ice shot up her arm. Her victory was mangled with grief and pain, but it was a victory all the same. Her gaze slid sideways to the fallen King Theodan behind her, and a sob caught in her chest. He was dead. She could see his sightless eyes staring into the sky, perhaps gazing upon the halls of his ancestors where he would now take his place among the glorious dead. Glorious, and yet dead all the same. Tears dripped down her cheeks and she brushed at them, holding back whimpers of despair. Now who would lead them? Eomer, in all likelihood... and though he would make a great leader, he could not replace what had been lost.

A scream broke the air, and Eowyn felt her hair stand on end. In the rush of adrenaline during the slaying of the Witch King, she had almost forgotten the Legolas lay slain in the dust. A wave of nausea broke over her as she remembered watching him lifted off his feet by the Witch King's blade, his eyes wide in shock and pain, his hands lifting to grip the steel as if to hold on. And then his eyes had rolled back in his head and the Witch King had seized him by the throat, pulled him off the sword as if he had been a troublesome insect, and tossed him to the ground. Now, that terrible scream was tearing the air in two. Eowyn had never heard an Elf in pain before, and the instant she did she knew she never wanted to hear it again. She remembered that tall, proud figure standing in King Theodan's halls, and she could not imagine the same being producing such a sound.

She couldn't see Legolas, but she knew he must be somewhere behind the carcass of the Witch King and its steed. With a surge of effort, she heaved herself to her feet - and instantly fell. She cried out in pain as her broken shield arm was crushed between her body and the floor. Darkness was overflowing her mind and vision and she was trembling. She forced herself to breathe evenly, tried to focus, but she could barely use either of her arms. One was broken from the blow of the Witch King; the other was crippled from the force of her own attack on the same. As she rolled onto her side and, as she tried to lift herself, saw an Orc limping towards her. Its lumpy, pale skin bulged from its armour and one arm was bent out of shape. It drew closer with every step, its single glittering eye fixed on her face.

Panic filled her and she looked around, desperate. Her eye fell on Legolas' bow, lying where it had fallen beside her. Twisting about, she saw with a surge of giddy relief an arrow embedded in the leg of her former King's horse. She reached for it with shaking hands and with three great heaves pulled it free. She fumbled for the bow, rolled over with a groan, aimed, and shakily fired. The arrow skimmed the Orc's face, enough to surprise it and send it stumbling. But it regained its balance and continued its path towards her, and now there were no convenient nearby arrows to help her. Blind terror struck and she scrabbled through the dirt for her sword, her strength waning with every second. Darkness began to push at the corners of her eyes. Dimly, she could still hear Legolas screaming.

As she sank down, her fingertips brushing the hilt of her sword, a horse galloped into view and the figure atop it sent a single, sweeping blow against the Orc's neck. She recognised the Man as he leapt down from the horse, reaching her before the Orc had hit the ground.

"Eowyn, Eowyn..."

"E-Eomer..."

His eyes, always so full of concern, travelled over her body and then to the Witch King. They widened and then returned to her with renewed shock. His hands closed over her own, beating back some of the chilling cold that had gripped her.

"Eowyn, are you hurt?"

"Th-Theodan," she whispered.

His eyes lifted to the white horse behind her and briefly lost focus. Then he looked back at her fiercely, his lips pressed tightly together. She lifted a trembling finger, pointing past him.

"Le-Le... Lego..."

"Aragorn has him."

And with those words, she could finally let the darkness claim her and drag her into blissful unawareness.

* * *

Aragorn faltered only once in battle, and that was when he heard a voice that was always so musical, so soft, suddenly scream with a pain so raw that he could barely recognise it.

He halted at once in his progress towards Gondor's walls, spinning to face the direction the sound had come from. If it hadn't been for Gimli, swiping at an approaching Orc with his axe, Aragorn would have been felled. Aragorn met the Dwarf's dark eyes and an understanding flew between them. At once, they changed direction and began to run towards the source of the sound, cutting down the Orcs in their path.

"It was only the Witch King," Gimli panted behind him. "It was he who cried, laddie. Or an Orc. It could have been any man."

Aragorn did not answer. For neither of them believed that statement. They both knew that voice, and Aragorn better than anyone knew that Men could not cry out in pain like that. The corpse of a great, headless Nazgul came briefly into view before Eomer, still astride his horse, rode into sight from a different direction. He and Aragorn shared a brief glance before the Man swung down from his horse, rapidly killing an Orc in the process. He picked his way over the Nazgul's body, dropping to his knees. And yet as Aragorn drew nearer, he realised that Eomer had ignored the source of the terrible screaming, which now abruptly broke off. He leapt over the Nazgul's tail and skidded to a halt as a golden-haired figure came into view, shuddering and jerking on the dusty ground.

"Legolas!"

Aragorn crouched beside the flinching body and laid his hands on the blood-soaked midriff. Blood had turned the wood Elf's clothes dark and was seeping slowly into the ground. As Aragorn touched the wound Legolas' body turned rigid with pain and another terrible scream erupted from his mouth. Alarmed and horrified to witness the Elf in such distress, Aragorn wiped his hands on his leggings and felt the Elf's forehead. Cold, clammy skin met his touch. He brushed the golden hair back, taking in Legolas' ashen grey skin and his wide, staring eyes. Those eyes, always so clear, always on the horizon, now fogged with agony and weeping endless tears, rolling wildly.

"Legolas," he repeated, his voice hoarse with panic. "Legolas, _tíro nin, dhen iallon."_

Legolas body shuddered with violent convulsions, his eyes staring straight through Aragorn. His breaths came short and sharp through pale lips. A continuous stream of half-cries and moans poured from his clenched teeth. Realising that Legolas was utterly insensible of his presence, Aragorn returned his attention to the wound. At once he could see that it was deep, and extremely untidy, as if the blade had been twisted before being removed. As he looked closer, pulling the torn jerkin aside cautiously, he detected thin, spider-web purple veins showing up against the skin, leading from the jagged wound and fading into the skin. His heart seared in horror.

He knew that sight all too well. He had seen it not so long ago, as he crouched beside Frodo on Weathertop. _Valar_, it all seemed so long ago now. But he knew what such symptoms meant, and Legolas' reaction made sense all too quickly.

"Aragorn!"

He looked up to see Eomer climbing awkwardly back up onto his horse, pulling a body with him. With a further shock, Aragorn recognised Eowyn in his grasp, her face just as pale as Legolas'. What she was doing there, Aragorn could barely understand. Eomer urged his horse forwards, his sister held tightly against himself.

"She killed the Witch King," he said, his voice clipped and hard. "I must take her to the Houses of Healing."

Aragorn understood. Eomer was explaining that he intended to bear his sister away to Gondor now, that she would be carried off the field first. He resisted the urge to argue that Legolas was in more need, knowing that his pleas would fall on death ears. After all, Eomer was speaking of the life of his sister, and there was no bartering to be done. Instead, Aragorn simply giving a curt nod. Eomer's eyes dropped to the Elf and back again.

"I will send help," he promised, his voice trembling. "I will alert Gandalf. You will not be waiting long."

"Go, hurry."

Aragorn turned away and felt in his small pouch for Athelas. He didn't have much left and cursed himself for not finding more before the battle. He could have looked while at the Rohan camp. As he retrieved it he suddenly noticed the shaft of an arrow close to his face and followed its point to the Elf's leg. Cursing under his breath, he determined to return to it later. He chewed what little Athelas he had and pressed it into the wound, his body shuddering at the scream the motion elicited from Legolas, and then tore off his cloak and used it to staunch the bleeding. Legolas' eyes were fluttering, one hand lifting in an attempt to push Aragorn away. The thick blood had his fingers slipping off Aragorn's arm onto the ground. Aragorn let go with one hand and caught the Elf's fingers between his, horribly aware of how ragged Legolas' breathing was.

"Hold on, hold on," he murmured, almost to himself. _"Avo dhavo am môr, Legolas, enni."_

Legolas' head rolled heavily to the side and blood abruptly spluttered from his lips, his eyes growing glazed. Aragorn flinched, panic swelling in his throat. A small voice in the back of his head was beginning to tell him how unlikely Legolas' chances of survival were, how he should let the Elf slip away without enduring any more. To his relief he did not have to be left alone with such thoughts for long - Gimli finally reached them, out of breath and covered in Orc blood.

"Aragorn! The lad, is he..."

His gruff voice trailed off as he took in the Elf. Legolas was currently coughing wetly on the burst of blood that had just forced its way up his throat and had left a spray of red saliva across his fine golden hair. Aragorn rolled the Elf onto his side, and to his despair Legolas only moaned this time. The Elf was losing strength fast. Aragorn, preoccupied with wiping the bloody saliva from Legolas' pale lips, barely realised that Gimli had started speaking.

"... nothing to fear, laddie, you'll be well in no time. Aragorn's here, you're in safe hands." The Dwarf caught Aragorn's eye, his brow furrowed in fear. "How may I help, Aragorn?"

"Horse," Aragorn managed, forcing his brain into action. "I need a horse. We must get him to the Houses of Healing in Gondor. Gimli, we haven't any time-"

Before he could continue, Gimli had turned on his heel, letting his axe fall, and was hurrying towards the nearest group of Riders as fast as his short legs could carry him. Aragorn returned his attention to Legolas, murmuring words of comfort in Elvish, despite the fact he was sure Legolas could not hear him. The Elf's frail body still suffered wave upon wave of spasms, and Aragorn's cloak was rapidly turning dark with blood. He looked to the arrow still embedded mid-thigh, bending closer to examine it. He could not attend to it now. Instead he tore off a strip of his cloak and wrapped it tightly around the arrow's entry point to stop the bleeding and then, apologising silently as he did so, he broke off half of the arrow's shaft. Legolas' scream tore the air once more.

After what felt like hours Gimli returned, leading a horse at the closest thing to a sprint the Dwarf could manage. Together they lifted Legolas up onto its back, Aragorn following to sit behind him. The Elf lay heavily against him, tremors rippling through him. Aragorn adjusted his arms, one cradling the Elf's back and the other pressing down on his sodden cloak. There was so much blood, so much... He tried to force himself to ignore it.

"Go, laddie, go," Gimli urged, retrieving his axe. "I will follow. Do not delay."

And so Aragorn kicked the horse into a gallop, leaving Gimli behind.

* * *

Far away in the dark forest of Mirkwood, an Elf with a thorny crown and a stern, forbidding face sat quietly in his private chambers. Unable to rest, he had emerged onto the glossy wooden balcony and settled himself in a beautifully carved chair. The twilight breeze stirred his long braided hair and chased clouds across the first few stars. He watched them silently, his mouth set in a firm line, his hands folded neatly on his lap. The trees around him whispered and murmured to one another, great leafy boughs rising and falling with each passing gust, almost like a sigh. He listened to them for a while, somewhat distracted, always silent.

Eventually, having sat still as stone for a long, long time, he rose and made his way back into his chambers, walking slowly yet purposefully, as if he had just made a decision. He crossed to the great writing desk that stood at one end of the room, took a sheet of parchment, and wrote in an elegant, graceful hand a few short lines. When he had finished he examined the message intently.

_I have reason to doubt the safety of my son. Please send news of his welfare as soon as convenience allows._

_By request of,_

_Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood_

When he had finished re-reading the note, he rolled it and sealed it delicately with wax. Rapping the paper against his fingers, he made his way slowly back out onto the balcony. For another long pause he studied the trees, and then the sky, and then closed his eyes. His grip tightened slightly on the parchment, as if to crush it, and then abruptly relaxed. He could not rest. He had to be sure.

At a low whistle, a small feathered form rose out of the woods before him and curved through the sky on graceful wings. The bird entered the light streaming from his chambers and landed on his offered arm, cocking its head and blinking keenly. He tied the small message to its foot and then stroked it for a few long moments, pacing back and forth along his balcony as he did so. Finally, after much deliberation, he raised his arm and shook the bird free. It circled him several times before soaring off into the gathering dark, the rhythmic _wu-whump _of its wings, almost like a heartbeat, fading to silence.

Thranduil returned to his carved chair and placed his fingertips together, staring directly ahead into the half-light. Every time he grew quiet, even for a moment, he could hear it. Only a whisper, barely audible, and gone if he tried to catch it. But still, it was there.

_Adar...__Gin iallon, goheno nin... Adar..._

The Elvenking closed his eyes softly against the night breeze and settled down to wait.

* * *

Aragorn hurtled through the twisting, narrow streets of Gondor as if all hell ran behind him. He travelled in a haze of panic, barely managing to avoid trampling soldiers as he went. To his relief the returning Eomer met him halfway, true to his word, and led him on to the Houses of Healing.

"I could not find Gandalf," he said as they clattered through the courtyards towards the Houses. "He must be busy with the men. I did not want to delay my return any longer."

Aragorn nodded blindly. They came to a halt outside the stocky, white-walled Houses, and Aragorn's ears caught the groans of a hundred wounded men. As Eomer climbed down and reached out his arms for Legolas' body, Aragorn's mind flew back to Rivendell, to the sweeping, serene buildings and open, airy rooms that Legolas needed. He knew at once, even as the wind carried the smell of sweat and blood to his nose, that this place would be very different.

As he eased Legolas off his lap and down towards Eomer the Elf grew suddenly rigid, and Aragorn saw coming another horrific scream before it came. Eomer flinched violently but still took the Elf's weight, struggling to keep his grip as Legolas struggled weakly.

"Down, put him down!" Aragorn cried, leaping down from his horse.

Eomer, shaken, laid him on the ground, and then headed into the Houses at a sprint. Aragorn's hands pushed aside his cloak and uncovered the wound, which to his horror was rapidly darkening.

"Legolas," he pleaded, reaching for the Elf's shoulder. "Don't give in, _savo amdir, Legolas, dhen iallon!"_

But Legolas' empty eyes were gazing somewhere he could not see. Reaching again for his bloody, slippery hand, Aragorn looked up as Eomer returned with two Healers, one Man and one Woman, both of which stopped dead at the sight of the Elf. They exchanged a quick glance and then looked at Aragorn.

"Please," he began, his voice shaking. "I need Athelas, hot water-"

"Forgive me," the Man broke in, his voice calm but authoritative. "I do not believe there is anything our hands can do for this warrior. Let him pass on in peace."

"His kind have more strength than you know," Aragorn replied heatedly, but before he could continue Legolas' let out another brief cry, a mere shadow of the scream he had uttered earlier, but still gut-wrenching. The Man's gaze narrowed.

"His screams have already panicked the wounded. We may not accept him without scaring the men, and using our few resources on a lost cause." He paused, perhaps regretting the harshness of his words. "I am sorry for your loss."

He inclined his head and then returned to the Houses of Healing, his hands clasped together in front of him. The Woman, meanwhile, did not move. Aragorn looked to her desperately, clinging onto his last hope of help.

"Please," he repeated. "He is part of the Fellowship of the Ring. He is Prince of Mirkwood. He cannot die."

"I'm sorry for you both," she replied softly, eyeing Legolas with pity. "But my companion is correct. He has already distressed the men. Forgive me, but his injuries seem too severe to remedy."

Aragorn's heart crushed as if beneath the weight of an Oliphant. He felt sudden tears sting at his eyes and looked down at Legolas, humiliated that he was showing such emotion. If he was to grieve, he would do it alone, with dignity, not here. Just as Legolas deserved to die with dignity rather than on a stone floor, choking on his own blood.

"I'm very sorry," the Woman repeated, and she seemed to mean it. "Perhaps you have private quarters you could take him to? I would be happy to supply you with whatever you need there."

Aragorn shook his head, recovering the wound with his cloak and pressing down. "I have now quarters here. There is nowhere - "

"You have mine."

Aragorn's spirit leapt, and before he even looked up his face had split in a giddy smile. Sure enough, there was Gandalf, always appearing in his hour of need, now striding across the courtyard with Pippin at his side. His white hair shone like a redeeming star in the sunlight. Aragorn felt like sobbing with relief. Gandalf would help. Gandalf would know what to do. He thanked _Valar_ for their luck, begged that Legolas' life may still be spared.

If the Wizard noticed the severity of Legolas' wounds, he did not react. Instead he looked at the Healer who, herself, looked thankful that help had arrived which saved her from turing her patients away.

"The Eastern guest rooms," Gandalf said, his tone fast and steady. "Pippin will show you the way. We will need supplies, whatever you can spare." He turned to Aragorn. "Come, it is not far."

Aragorn pulled Legolas into his arms with trembling hands and followed the Wizard at a run. Gandalf led the way across the courtyard and through a maze of passageways, much more tranquil than the rest of Gondor. Before long they reached a corridor of small, decorated doors and Gandalf showed them to the third door on the left. They entered a small, white-walled room with a single window, the bed untouched, the lamps unlit. Unsurprisingly, Aragorn decided. Gandalf would not have spent much time sleeping in their current situation. Aragorn laid his bundle down on the bed and immediately began to unbutton the Elven jerkin and shirt.

"They have no Athelas here," Gandalf called, crossing the room to open his pack which lay on a chair in the corner, "But I have a supply. I had little doubt of the Black Riders joining the battle today. It is the Black Breath, is it not?"

Aragorn's stomach heaved at the word and he nodded stiffly. He had managed to manoeuvre Legolas' arms out of the flexible Eleven material and carefully slid the garments out from beneath him, tossing them unceremoniously on the ground. He bent closer to examine the wound, shallow, erratic breaths filling his ears. It was streaked with poisonous blackness and blood was still leaking from it steadily, although at a slower rate than before. Perhaps Legolas had no blood left to lose. The Elf jerked away from his touch as he attempted to probe it, letting out a cry. With a jolt, Aragorn realised Legolas' lips were now bloodless and his eyes rolling back in his head. His mouth was open but the breaths he took were too shallow to bring him any air.

"Gandalf!"

Gandalf was by his side already, handing him the Athelas. Aragorn let it drop to the bed, his hands rushing to Legolas' face as the Elf began to choke once more, blood peppering his lips.

"_Thul, Legolas, thul!" _Aragorn urged, rolling him again onto his side to help him clear his throat. "Gandalf, he will not breathe. Can you help, can you ease the pain-"

Before he had finished, Gandalf was murmuring words of an ancient dialect, smoothing a hand over Legolas' forehead as he did so. The blood began to stop dribbling from Legolas' mouth and Aragorn gently eased him onto his back, removing his hands to allow Gandalf to work. Legolas' eyes opened wide and then sank half-closed, his blue stare finally empty of pain and fear. Aragorn hurriedly felt his pulse and was relieved to find it present, if weak and fast. The Elf's body still twitched and flinched, and muffled sounds of anguish still left him from time to time, but he seemed calmer now.

"It won't last long," Gandalf warned, pushing back the sleeves of his robe. "We will need a sleeping draught."

"We will make one when the others arrive."

Aragorn chewed some of the Athelas and spread the crushed leaves carefully over the wound before pressing his hand down, trying to finally stop the blood from flowing. He could get a better look now. The wound was situated a few inches above the Elf's bellybutton, perhaps just below his ribs. His skin was damp with cold sweat mingled with the blood. Aragorn glanced up to see Legolas' face bloodless, stray strands of hair plastered to his neck, redness still staining his lips. His breathing was more even now, but still rasping and tight. The Elf's gaze remained disturbingly glazed, as if lifeless.

"Aragorn."

He looked up. Gandalf's eyes moved slowly from the him to the Elf and back again. His face was dark.

"We must be careful not to force life where there is none," the Wizard said softly. "Not when it causes such suffering."

"He will heal fast," Aragorn insisted. "If he lives through the night his body will have healed the worst of it."

"He has been wounded by the Witch King. Such injuries are not so simple."

Aragorn pressed his lips together and stared blindly down at his blood-soaked hands, still folded over Legolas' chest. Without his clothes, Aragorn could now see the bruised outline of a handprint at Legolas' throat. He blinked at it, struggling to take it in. His lips moved almost without him realising.

"We must try."

Eomer, Pippin and the Healer arrived after a few minutes, laden down with medical supplies. Eomer and the Healer left quickly, the former promising to find Gimli and the latter pledging her help should it be required. Pippin hovered uncertainly near the door as Aragorn picked up some clean cloths and began to clear away the blood. The pail of water at his feet quickly turned red.

"Pippin?"

Pippin stepped forwards at Gandalf's call, strangely silent at the sight of Legolas' motionless form. Gandalf gestured to the supplies at the foot of the bed.

"Will you make a sleeping draught? You'll need this, and this here. Crush the herbs together and add some water."

Pippin followed his directions, kneeling to collect together the ingredients Gandalf indicated. He glanced up once, his mouth opening as if about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it and returned to his work in silence. Gandalf, after all, had been claimed by Aragorn to help, and had no time to answer questions. The urgency of the situation stunned the hobbit's usually talkative mouth into stillness.

Aragorn, satisfied that the bleeding had slowed enough, applied the last of the Athelas and slid an arm behind Legolas' shoulders, lifting him off the bed and gesturing to Gandalf. Following his lead, the Wizard wrapped a bandage carefully around the Elf's chest, passing it over the folded cloth on the wound which would act as a pressure pad. Aragorn winced as Legolas moaned in pain, glancing down at the Elf's face. He cleared golden hair away from his neck and face with his free hand, feeling droplets of sweat racing over the porcelain skin. Legolas' eyebrows pulled together tightly.

_"N-Naneth..."_

Pippin, kneeling at the foot of the bed, perked up. "Is he awake? What did he say?"

Aragorn wet his lips anxiously. "He's not awake, no. He called for his mother."

_"Naneth... dh-dhen iallon... baw..."_

Aragorn glanced at Gandalf and, satisfied that the bandages were secure, pulled the pillow closer. "Is there a spare? He should be elevated."

Gandalf retreated to the cupboard in the corner of the room and passed Aragorn a second pillow, allowing him to prop Legolas up slightly. The Elf was still mumbling under his breath. His eyes were beginning to flit from side to side, still empty of recognition.

_"Av-'osto, Legolas, ci a mellyn," _Aragorn urged.

Legolas showed no sign of hearing him, his breath catching in his throat. Aragorn realised that blood was still drying on his lips and hastily reached for a damp cloth. He cleared it away as gently as he could.

"Aragorn, his leg."

"Yes, I'm coming."

Aragorn put the cloth down and tried to catch Legolas' gaze for a few moments longer, hoping for something, anything, that would indicate that the Elf knew he was there. Disappointed, he joined Gandalf further down the bed and examined the arrow. His companion had already cut a wide slit in Legolas' leggings to reveal the wound, arrow still embedded.

"It's not bad," the Wizard noted. "But it will have to be removed soon."

Aragorn nodded. "And if there is poison?"

Gandalf gave a small shake of his head, and Aragorn pursued the subject no further. If there was poison, Legolas' chance at life would grow even smaller. Intent on keeping his hands busy, Aragorn retrieved his knife, cleaned it of dirt and blood, and cut a small, clean opening. The arrow eased out slowly, its progress helped as Gandalf held Legolas' jerking leg still. Aragorn squinted at the metal point of the weapon and then at the wound, his eyes met only with blood. He could only smell blood, too - no indication of poison. He shared a quick look with Gandalf and the Wizard smiled back at him.

"Some luck, then."

Aragorn retrieved some of Gondor's medicinal herbs and spread them over the wound before bandaging it, unwilling to take any chances with infection. By this time Legolas' breathing was becoming ragged once more and his face was contorting with pain. As Aragorn straightened his body convulsed violently and he let out a small cry.

_"Adar! Adar, baw... Goheno nin, Adar! Naneth!"_

His voice rose to a panicked scream at his last plea and Aragorn sat hurriedly beside him, catching at his clenched fists.

"They are not here, Legolas," he explained quietly. _"No dhínen."_

Legolas' breathing was becoming fast and uneven once more. Aragorn heard Gandalf calling for Pippin, and the next moment the Hobbit was by his side with a cup. Aragorn took it with a grateful smile and pressed it to Legolas' lips, reaching to hold his flinching head still with his other hand. The Elf coughed, tried to spit, and then his eyes clenched shut in pain and he reflexively swallowed. Aragorn lowered the cup to Pippin's waiting hand and pushed Legolas' hair back, rubbing a thumb across his companion's forehead until those blue eyes drifted half-open in sleep, once more empty of emotion.

"Will he be recover?" Pippin asked, his lips firmly downturned.

Aragorn could not answer. Instead Gandalf smiled at the Hobbit encouragingly, even if his optimism did not reach his eyes.

"Time will tell," the Wizard said.

The phrase did not offer much comfort to anyone.

* * *

**Elvish Words:**

Look at me - Tíro nin

I beg of you - Dhen iallon

Don't yeild to darkness - Avo dhavo am môr

For me - Enni

Forgive me - Goheno nin

No - Baw

Naneth - Mother

Adar - Father

Breathe - Thul

Don't be afraid - Av-'osto

Have hope - Savo amdir

Be silent - No dhínen

You are with friends - Ci a mellyn

* * *

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, as usual.**

* * *

As Legolas approached something resembling consciousness, pain slammed into him like a stone wall. He tried to pull away from it, back into the emptiness that his mind had become, but it was too late. Now he had remembered it, it was too late to escape. Bolts of agony shot through him like lightning, and yet no matter how hard he tried he could make no sound. He could hear nothing, he realised. He was there, alone, in the blackness, unconscious of touch or sight or sound. All he knew was the scorching pain.

He was allowed no respite, no moment of ease to remember how he had reached this situation. Indeed, he could barely remember his own name. Voices and sounds flickered just out of reach, like the last tongue of a dying flame. As the pain grew stronger the blackness parted, revealed a single, blazing, terrible eye gazing into his soul. He wanted to scream but, once more, he could not. He felt as if his body had disintegrated around him, as if he had nothing left but a last burst of consciousness. Enough to witness evil stretching out its hand for him. The eye blinked, its heat blistering, rotting, destroying -

_He crammed his shaking body into the gap beneath the roots of the tree. Dirt pattered on his face. Sobs of fear caught in his throat as he peered out of his hiding place._

Legolas clawed desperately at the darkness lingering in the back of his head. Anything but this, anything but this. He could not endure this. He tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere, but they were no longer his own to command. As if fishing lines were catching in his memory, dragging the terrible images back to the surface.

_He could smell blood. She was near, he knew - he could hear her voice, no longer serene and calm, now harsh with battle cries._

_"Naneth," he whimpered, knowing she would hear, her keen ears always alert to his call._

_Her boots stepped into sight, and he followed them up to her concerned face peering down. She threw him a smile and he felt that comforting blanket of peace settle over him, convinced now that all would be well. She turned, lifting her sword as another one from the ambush rushed towards her-_

If Legolas had access to his own body, he knew he would be screaming by now. As it was his grief circled his heart, broken periodically with shards of pain. He could not cry for her now. When he was very young he would have nightmares constantly, and here was always the point he began to cry.

_Blade on flesh, and she cried out. She fell slowly, gasping, and a boot connected with her face. He watched, frozen in terror, unable to breathe. She hit the ground, her head turning, her eyes seeking him out, desperately._

_An Elf in black robes placed flowers and sprinkled perfume over a body wrapped in white linen, uttering slow, ritualistic farewells through a stony face._

_"Savo hîdh nen gurth... Govano in nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos..."_

_His father sat beside the body, his head propped up on his shaking hands, slumped against the table. He made no sound, and yet the air around him felt dark. Legolas pushed the door he peered through fully open, inched forwards. The Elf in black looked up without breaking his speech. His father remained motionless._

If he had to endure it, let it be over fast. Let it be brief. Legolas felt caught in a trap, a beast pacing in a cage, madness pressing against his skull like a knife's edge. He could not run. Valar, if he could run, he would start now and never stop until he went off the edge of the world.

_"Adar..."_

_His father raised his head slowly. He stared straight through Legolas, into the corridor beyond him. Then his head dropped back into his hands and his eyes closed._

_His mother's eyes widened and began to empty of their warmth._

_The Witch King stalked slowly through Mirkwood, trees setting alight as he passed, the flames building tall. Bodies dropped like pebbles to the forest floor and were devoured by the triumphant spiders..._

_His mother's mouth opened and maggots began to spill out, wriggling from her nose, pushing their way out of her eyes..._

_An Orc approached his father and with a single sweep of his blade slit his throat. Blood poured over the glorious robes and spilled over the floor, blood began to rain from the sky..._

_Blue eyes empty..._

_The eye... The eye was appearing out of the bloody floor, burning, laughing, screeching..._

Legolas felt blind panic seize him. The pain spiked abruptly. He was covered with insects, with fire, with blood. The blackness of the Eye's pupil began to spread, overwhelming the flood of horrific images. He felt a falling sensation. And even as he fell, he begged for death.

* * *

The night had closed over Gondor. Smoke from the battlefield puffed across the sky with the breeze, bringing with it the smell of death. The dead Orcs were being burned, their bodies returning to the Earth and Air. The stars blinked brightly, far away. Aragorn watched them and wondered how many souls had flown to join them in the past day. Too many to count. Too many to think of. Too many for every name to be remembered.

Standing at the edge of the courtyard, Aragorn breathed in the night air and closed his aching eyes.

He had only managed to spend a short time with Legolas before Gandalf reminded him of his duties. Just as the Wizard was required to return to the Captains of Gondor and assess the damage to the city, the plans to rebuild, to organise the remaining troops and make preliminary plans for the coming days, Aragorn was needed in the Houses of Healing. Few Healers were equipped to battle the Black Breath, from which many of whom were suffering, Eowyn among them. Gandalf had fixed him with that piercing stare, his face serious.

"There is nothing you can do here, Aragorn," he had said sternly. "You are a returning King. You have people to lead, to protect."

The knowledge that he was, in fact, Gondor's rightful King had left him in the past few hours. There had been much to think of - the Army of the Dead, the battle, Legolas... And yet Gandalf was right. Aragorn's responsibilities were calling him. But Aragorn was still reluctant to leave. It was not that he doubted Pippin's loyalty, but simply his ability - if something went wrong, Pippin would be left alone to deal with the consequences. And yet even as he hesitated, the door of Gandalf's chambers opened and highly welcome allies entered - Eomer, Gimli and, to Aragorn's surprise, Merry. All battered and bloodstained, yet all relieved to be reunited with the remaining Fellowship. Now Aragorn found himself hard pressed for excuses to stay - Gimli stubbornly professed his ability to watch over the Elf, and he had both Pippin and a slightly exhausted Merry to send if more help should be needed. And so Gandalf left to meet with the Captains of Gondor and Aragorn slowly relinquished Legolas' care to Gimli and the Hobbits. His departure was hastened by Eomer, who was still filled with concern for his sister. He checked Legolas' pulse and felt his brow once more before leaving.

_"Fer-nesto in, gwador-nin," _he murmured. _"Posto vae."_

He had spent the next few hours in the Houses of Healing, where he had been regarded with suspicion by some and relief by others. Some were willing to learn, but others frowned and muttered at his suggestions. Such behaviour was not surprising - considering the battle these people had just survived, they had a right to be cautious of strangers. He did what he could.

Eowyn was in as good a condition as could be expected. Her eyes roved beneath their lids in response to night terrors, but as he checked her broken arm was splinted properly she looked up, gazing at him hazily.

"Eomer?" she muttered, trembling. "Where..."

Eomer, pacing anxiously nearby, darted over at her voice and knelt, reaching for her cheek. "Here," he said hastily. "Here, sister."

She blinked at him and then closed her eyes once more. Aragorn ordered her to be covered with more blankets to chase off the icy chills of the Black Breath, but was somewhat comforted that she had spoken to him. He promised a full, if slow, recovery to Eomer, who looked faint with relief at the news. As he watched the Rider fuss over his sister, Aragorn was reminded abruptly of the death of Theodan, and of Eomer's expected ascent to the throne of Rohan. It seemed strange that they, first meeting on dry grasslands at sword-point, were now so closely allied.

He left the Houses slowly, weariness dragging at his bones. At once he was greeted with the ghostly form of the Dead King, his ethereal army hovering behind him, flooding the courtyard. The Dead King's mouth twisted in a leer that showed his blackened teeth.

_"You made a promise..."_

Aragorn inclined his head, aware of how long the Army of the Dead had waited for his return.

"I release you from your vow," he said steadily. "Go, be at peace."

For a moment the Dead King looked almost surprised. Then he grinned slowly and he and his army melted on a passing gust of wind, wiped out of existence like chalk from a slate. Aragorn gazed at the place once occupied by the army and took a deep breath of the night air. He felt strangely empty. His heart weighed heavily in his chest. He crossed to the edge of the courtyard and stared down at the battlefield, searching for the strength to continue with the night.

_"Put aside the Ranger. Become who you were born to be..."_

Lord Elrond's voice rang in his head. Aragorn did not feel a King. He felt like a child.

Far below on the battlefield, the structures that had once held Orc war weaponry were being torn down by horsemen and ropes. He watched them topple and splinter into wood chips as they hit the ground. Soon all that would remain of their enemies would be black scorches and ash on the ground. And then it would be time to burry the dead, to say farewell.

_"I do not fear death."_

His own words came back to him as he watched the distant fires burning. As he had entered the Kingdom of the Dead, he had spoken those words aloud. Legolas, he realised, had not. The Elf had simply followed in silence, weapons drawn, face stoic. Aragorn found himself wondering if Legolas did fear death. Legolas was immortal... Immortal yet dying. Aragorn breathed in the night air, filling his lungs. He still did not fear death. He feared loneliness.

He took a few minutes more to himself, attempting to regain his composure. Then, shaking back his hair, he turned and made his way back towards Gandalf's guest quarters, pausing by a fountain to splash cold water over his face and wash the blood from his hands. He took a small detour to the inner halls of Gondor in search of food, hampered by the need to ask for directions every so often. He could see the comedy of the situation - a returning King, lost in his own kingdom. He eventually found a kitchen near the guest quarters, perhaps for the use of the King's guards, and loaded his arms with dried meat and bread. He retrieved a tin jug and filled it with water before continuing on his path back to Gandalf's room, satisfied with his findings. He had no doubt that Gimli and the Hobbits would be hungry.

By the time he arrived back, he suspected the early hours of the morning were upon them. He nudged the door with his shoulder, but could not turn the handle with his arms full. Before he could shout, the door opened and Pippin's small face appeared in the gap. The Hobbit's face brightened at the sight of Aragorn, and then grew even more joyous at the sight of the food. He opened the door wide.

"Strider, at last! Where did you find all that?"

Aragorn entered, smiling at the use of his Ranger name. "The victors of a great battle deserve a great feast," he said, allowing Pippin to take the food from him.

He looked around the room. The lamps had been lit, chasing the night out of this cocoon of warmth. Gandalf had not yet returned. On the ground beneath the window, Merry was asleep on an unrolled blanket, a cloak thrown over him as a blanket. Gimli had removed the majority of his armour and had been standing beside the bed. As Aragorn approached he looked up and moved to greet him, a grim smile twisting his lips.

"It's good to see you, laddie," he said. "This is a long night."

His words turned Aragorn's mouth dry. Clasping Gimli's shoulder briefly, he stepped past, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took a long look at Legolas.

The Elf's eyes had closed.

Every inch of his skin was covered with a sheen of icy sweat, and despite the extra blankets he was covered with a shiver rolled over him every now and again. His flesh had a distinct greyish tinge and blood had crusted at the corner of his mouth. Blue veins criss-crossed across his thin eye lids. Aragorn laid a hand over his chest and counted the faltering heartbeats. Legolas lived still, even if he hovered between the living and the dead. Bending forwards, Aragorn listened for the faint, raspy breaths whispering slowly in and out.

_"Ci vaer, Legolas?"_ he asked quietly. He got no response, and so directed his question to Gimli. "How does he fare?"

Gimli hesitated, grunted, pulled at his beard with one large-knuckled hand. "Not well. Pray I could say otherwise, laddie." The Dwarf moved over to Legolas' other side, his face dark, his tread slow. "He's been... restless."

"Has he spoken at all?"

"Much, but not to us. He raved and screamed for hours, shouted himself hoarse. Pippin made some of your foul-smelling sleep potion, but we could not make him drink it. He coughed blood several times - " Gimli indicated jerkily the red spots on the pillow " - and we feared choking him if we tried to make him drink by force. His eyes closed not long before your return."

"He said that word - 'Naneth' - a lot," Pippin interjected, speaking through a mouthful of bread. "And another... 'Adder', perhaps?"

Aragorn listened in silence, despair seeping through his bones. He lifted the blankets back to uncover the wound. The bandages were spotted with blood. Looking further, the leg wound seemed to be in tact, the bandages unmarked. Aragorn folded back the blankets and gestured to Gimli.

"Will you help me? His bandages must be changed."

Gimli nodded earnestly, stepping forwards. Aragorn, in a repeat of his actions only a few hours earlier, slipped a hand between Legolas' shoulder blades and lifted him carefully. The Elf made no sound, hanging limply in his arm. Swallowing hard, Aragorn allowed Gimli to take his place supporting their patient and began to unwrap the bandages. He lifted the folded cloth and suppressed a shudder as he uncovered the wound.

If anything, it seemed to have gaped wider. Its torn edges leaked a dark discharge like an angry red mouth. Black veins ran like tree branches from the site of the wound, now reaching further up towards the chest. It had not scabbed over at all, and Gimli's report that Legolas had continued to cough blood suggested that any deeper injuries had failed to heal too. Aragorn retrieved a new cloth and pressed it gently against the wound, glancing over his shoulder at Pippin.

"Pippin, will you return to the Healers and ask for more hot water? Quickly."

Pippin nodded, picked up another chunk of bread and cheese, and left the room at a run. Aragorn nodded at Gimli to indicate the Dwarf could lay his burden down.

"Please, eat," he said, nodding at the food now deposited on the desk. "I may be some time."

Gimli retrieved some food but returned to eat it. He watched Aragorn examine the darkened flesh around the wound.

"He has not wakened," he observed. "As if he cannot feel our touch."

Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment. "Indeed. Perhaps he cannot." He paused in his administrations, looking Gimli in the eye. "We will know by dawn. One way or another."

They waited in silence for Pippin's return.

* * *

_"No more, please, no more..."_

Legolas wasn't sure who he was pleading with. Scene after grotesque scene assaulted him, sometimes followed by a brief phase of nothingness interrupted only by the pain. It would never go. He felt almost numb to it now. Even though the agony would peak whenever he tried to speak or breathe or move or think, it would quickly fade into the distance. As if he was retreating from it. He felt confused by such events, unable to remember how they had been brought about. All he knew for certain was that he had been broken by a force too great for him to bear.

_"Legolas."_

His mind flinched away from the voice. He had learned by now not to answer to voices speaking his name, knowing he would simply be faced by yet another terrible vision. Some were memory, some were nightmarish madness. All were intolerable. It was becoming more and more difficult to resist them.

_"Legolas, gwador-nin, why have you forsaken me?"_

He felt an icy coldness invading his lungs, so abrupt that it hurt to breathe. Through the throbbing pain he made out a figure standing in a brightly lit hall, grey-haired, cloaked in regal colours, a silver crown resting on his head. _Estel, _he realised dimly. Or rather, King Elessar, as he now seemed. Aragorn moved slowly towards him, his cloak trailing behind him, his armour flaring in the bright glare of light. Legolas found himself gazing upon the King of Men, who at that moment was staring at him with a mixture of sorrow and contempt etched on his face.

_"Why?" _he repeated. _"You swore your loyalty to me. We were brothers in arms, mellon-nin. Why have you betrayed me?"_

With a thrill of terror, Legolas watched a thin droplet of blood trickle from the corner of Aragorn's eye. He wanted to open his mouth to protest the accusation, beg forgiveness, he didn't care which, but his lips were frozen. He could feel ice spreading over him, eating into his very soul with razor teeth. Aragorn blinked and more red tears made their slow way down his face. The marble hall they stood in warped and crumbled, torn apart by the merciless winds of time. Legolas, unable to move, could only stare in grief-stricken horror as the wind began to eat into Aragorn's flesh, bone showing through skin, clothes turning to ash.

_"You failed me, Legolas. Your oath of kinship is broken."_

"Û!"

The cry broke from his lips with a sudden burst of fire and blinding agony drove in on him like a swarm of bees. He floundered in it, darkness rushing over his vision, the image of Aragorn's half-decayed body etched into his brain. He struggled against the tide of nothingness, agony plunging through him with every breath. But breath he had, breath he felt, even though it scorched. He forced his lips into movement once more, grinding out words between his clenched teeth.

"Estel!"

* * *

Aragorn washed out the wound upon Pippin's return and re-bandaged it with Gimli's help. Their work done, and Legolas still as lifeless as a corpse, Gimli and Pippin retired to the edges of the room. Within moments Pippin had fallen asleep, propped against the wall beside Merry. Gimli followed his lead shortly after, seated in the chair in the corner. Aragorn remained perched on Legolas' bed, occasionally rising to refresh the water of his damp cloth, which he used to wipe the sweat from the Elf's chest and face. He felt as if in a daze, hardly aware of his mechanical movements. His eyes grew heavy several times but he fought the weariness off, desperate to keep awake, certain that should he sleep, he would awake to find his charge dead. He wandered the room as the night dragged on, endless, dark. He watched the fires burning outside the window, paced back to Legolas' side to repeat his routine of cleaning away the clammy sweat. He waited and waited for some sign of life, but the Elf's eyes remained closed.

The lamps burned low. Their small, jumping flames burned patterns on the backs of Aragorn's eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. He took up a seat on the floor beside the bed, leaning against the bedside cabinet, focussed on the sound of Legolas breathing. The night felt quiet. Time passed.

And then, perhaps after minutes, perhaps after hours, Legolas' breathing hitched.

Aragorn was on his feet in moments, seating himself on the edge of the bed and reaching for the Elf's arm. Again the breathing faltered, no suggestion of feeling crossing the Elf's face. Aragorn's stomach dropped away from him. He contemplated waking Gimli, shouting for Gandalf, but both ideas seemed fruitless. His heart told him that this was the moment he had been waiting for, the determining moment of hope or despair. He waited. Legolas released a breath - and did not take another in.

Aragorn stared. His mind was empty, teetering on the brink of crushing grief, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

"Legolas," he breathed, the word sounding almost like a prayer on his dry lips.

His prayer was met with silence. Aragorn shut his eyes and dropped his head, pressing both hands against his eyes as hard as he could. He begged to be dreaming. He begged to be anywhere but at this bedside, waiting for confirmation of the unknowable...

_"Û..."_

Aragorn flinched so violently that he almost sobbed aloud. He swallowed hard, his hands fumbling numbly for Legolas' shoulders, uncertain as to whether his mind was mocking him or not. Just as he was beginning to believe he had been fooling himself, Legolas' lips parted once more.

_"Es... tel..."_

Aragorn found himself blinking back tears, and this time he didn't care. He leant forwards, placing a hand against Legolas' forehead. The Elf still felt cold to the touch, and yet as Aragorn smoothed his hair back his eyelids flickered, slowly cracked open. Legolas stared directly forwards, not meeting Aragorn's gaze, his blue eyes misty. Aragorn realised with a surge of surprise that tears were creeping from the corners of the Elf's eyes.

"Legolas," he repeated, leaning closer. "_Tolo enni, mellon-nin... _Can you hear me, my friend?"

Legolas blinked slowly, taking a ragged breath. His face twitched slightly, revealing the pain he felt. Aragorn considered going for the medical supplies at the foot of the bed, mixing a painkiller, but he couldn't bear to move in case the spell broke. He reached instead for the Elf's cheek, gingerly wiping away the tears.

_"Goheno nin,"_ Legolas said suddenly, his voice weak but his words in tact. _"Goheno..."_

"Forgive you?" Aragorn repeated, confused. "Legolas, _no dhínen. _There is nothing to forgive, _gwador-nin."_

"Failed..." Legolas' eyes moved suddenly, and for a moment Aragorn was certain they were fixed on his own, seeing him. He held the Elf's face gently, his other hand steady on his arm.

"No," he said shortly, firmly. "Never. You could never have failed me, _gwador-nin. _You must not think such things. You are my companion, my brother and my kin."

Legolas held his gaze for a few moments longer in silence, his lips trembling as if about to speak. But then his eyes closed slowly and, once again, he was lost to the world. Aragorn remained still for a long pause, listening intently, until he heard Legolas' shallow breaths begin to whisper once more. Letting out a great, shuddering sigh of relief, the Man straightened. He had no idea if Legolas had really seen him or had been looking upon another dream-world.

He did not know if he had just witnessed a recovery or a farewell.

The rest of the night flickered past in a blur of half-formed memories - checking bandages, blinking drowsily at bloodstains, wringing out the cloth, touching clammy, cold skin in the hopes that it would warm, retrieving extra blankets, pacing across the room, sitting, stretching, head dropping against the wall and startling himself awake... He remembered one clear point when the rustle of robes reached his ears and he jolted awake, seated on the floor with his back to the bed, head connecting sharply with the bedposts as he flinched. He looked up blearily to see Gandalf bending over to study the Elf closely, mumbling something under his breath as his fingers trailed over his white staff. The Wizard glanced at him and offered him a small nod, a smile. Aragorn struggled upright and felt along the bedspread for Legolas' wrist, dropped off to sleep once more as he felt the pulse flickering against his hand. The door opened and closed, opened and closed. Someone whispered on the other side of the room. Aragorn drifted, his dreams blissfully empty of thought.

When he woke again the golden shimmer of sunlight was creeping across the floor and his mouth was dry with sleep. He was curled on his side on the cold floor beside the bed, head cushioned on his arm, one hand loosely coiled over the hilt of his knife. He blinked his way awake to the sound of Gimli's rough voice, Gandalf's softer murmur. He lifted his head awkwardly, wincing at the crick in his neck, pushed himself up, scrubbed both hands over his face in an effort to regain his senses. He heard a heavy tread on the floor and Gimli moved into sight, holding a glass of water which he held out. Aragorn took it and drained the contents, shaking sleep away. He did not dare to speak, did not dare ask. Instead he watched Gimli's eyes follow the cup as he placed it on the ground.

"A long night," the Dwarf observed. "But it is over now."

Aragorn's heart heaved. "Over?" he repeated, struggling to his feet to see the bed.

"Peace, Aragorn," Gandalf said, his old face creasing in a smile. "The path of the dead is shut to our friend for now."

Aragorn looked down at Legolas, who looked no different than he had in the hours of the night, but whose chest continued to rise and fall with steady, shallow breaths. His closed eyelids twitched slightly and Aragorn felt dizzy with hot joy, reaching for the wall to steady himself. Gimli clapped him on the back, barely containing his triumph, saying something about Legolas' incredible stubbornness to be outdone, even by death. Aragorn could barely hear his words. He closed his eyes and thanked Valar again and again and again.

The dawn after the Battle of Pelennor Fields had come, and at last their own personal battle had been won.

**Elvish Words:**

Have peace in death - Savo hîdh nen gurth

May you meet your family and friends in the afterlife - Govano in nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos.

Get better soon - Fer-nesto in!

Rest well - Posto vae

How do you fare? - Ci vaer?

No! - Û / Baw

Come to me - Tolo enni

My friend - Mellon-nin

Forgive me - Goheno nin

Be silent - No dhínen

My brother - Gwador nin

**Thanks for reading, any and all feedback is welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	4. Chapter 4

**The timing is different from the original here in order to meet the needs of the story - therefore we'll say at this point that Frodo and Sam are still being led by Gollum to the scary spider place up the mountain. Hoping this will work in terms of structuring the final battle.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings, unfortunately.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence (of course)**

* * *

Aragorn tongued his pipe, letting out small puffs of smoke, his eyes trained on Gandalf and Eomer's hunched backs. The two were pouring over a map, just as they had done the day before, and the day before that. Riders had been sent out to the towns and villages that had failed to answered Theodan's call in the hope that the call of the King of Gondor would be met with more hope and enthusiasm. So far, few men had shown up at the gates, and even fewer warriors. There was much to be done among the men - the walking wounded that remained in Gondor would be sent out again; those townsfolk who had evaded the orc attack were enrolled in making spears, arrows, shields... The whole process was a blur to Aragorn. It had been his plan to distract the Enemy's eye with one last battle. He doubted very much whether he would return from it. And with Gondor already damaged from the recent blow it had suffered from the Battle of Pelennor Fields, there were few to come. Certainly not enough to enable an equal fight.

He may be leading his people, and himself, to death.

"There is no point in searching for another entry," Gandalf announced as Eomer pointed to the further borders of Mordor. "If we wish to draw Sauron's eye away, we can only approach from the front gate. Any other direction will draw his eye towards Mount Doom."

"We will have nothing on our side," Eomer argued. "We will be at their mercy. It would be better to use the terrain, place them at a disadvantage..."

"They know those mountains far better than we," Aragorn murmured, drawing their gaze. "They would cut us off in no time. Gandalf is right."

Eomer sighed heavily. He pushed his hair back from his face, now permanently etched with lines of thought. "We are walking into the hornet's nest," he said dryly. "Into the dragon's mouth."

Aragorn pushed away from the pillar he had been leaning on and crossed the hall to the window, making his way past the throne. Still he had not approached it. He felt like a child masquerading as a King. Until the coronation - if there could be a coronation, assuming he still possessed a head in the future days - he had no need to sit upon it. And until then he would not. Instead he looked out upon the sprawling tiers of Minus Tirith. Pelennor Fields were empty of bodies by now, three days after the battle had ended. The sun could shine once more without unveiling corpses. Yet still the borders of Mordor heaped sullenly against the horizon, ever watching. They could waste no more time. They were taking too long to recover, and the longer they waited the more chance Sauron had to prepare for their arrival.

To only have word from Frodo, to simply hear where he was, would be a blessing.

He turned away from the window. Eomer was staring through the table, his mind clearly elsewhere. Aragorn did not have to think hard to discover where his thoughts were.

"How fares your sister?"

Eomer looked up at him, offered a small smile. "Well. Better."

Aragorn nodded, exhaling smoke. Eomer hesitated before asking.

"And Legolas?"

Aragorn simply nodded. He did not know what the correct answer would be. Perhaps the same as Eomer's.

Over the past few days, he had divided his time strictly between the organisation of their rapidly approaching attack on Mordor and tending to Legolas. To his surprise, most of the times he had entered Legolas' room, Gimli had been sitting in the chair by the bed, muttering to himself or puffing on his pipe or fiddling with parts of his armour. Apparently the feud between them had given way to friendship somewhere along the road, and Aragorn was relieved that he did not have to fear leaving Legolas alone. He found that, without being asked, Merry, Pippin and Gandalf made efforts to take Gimli's place when the Dwarf or Aragorn were called away. And yet the days had been long and Legolas' progress was slow. At least now when nightmares or visions plagued him, he seemed to respond to their efforts to calm him. There was no clear moment of recognition, as on that first night when he had looked into Aragorn's eyes and spoken, but on some level he seemed to hear their voices. But the Black Breath kept his skin cold and his hallucinations returning.

Mostly he spoke of his mother or his father. Sometimes he mentioned _Estel, _and it would seem that these nightmares would bring panic instead of grief. Aragorn, powerless to help, could only offer heavy sleeping draughts. He had spent one early morning riding out to search for more Athelas, but the weed was few and far between on the dusty terrain of Gondor, and he always had to turn back after a couple of hours.

But, thankfully, one night past Aragorn had entered the room to find Legolas' eyes half open, his condition resembling more of an Elven sleep than before. He took this as a triumph and a sign of hope.

"You have had no word from the Hobbits?" Eomer was saying, the mention of Frodo bringing Aragorn sharply back to the conversation.

Gandalf shook his head, his eyes filled with sadness. "Frodo has passed beyond my sight," he replied quietly. "The darkness is deepening."

"If Sauron had the ring, we would know it," Aragorn put in steadily. "The world has not come to an end. We have time yet."

Gandalf tilted his head in a small nod. "Indeed. The loss of the Witch King will also earn us time - Sauron now has no lieutenant to do his bidding, and I doubt very much that the Orcs will offer a good replacement."

The great doors at the end of the hall opened abruptly, the groan of their hinges bouncing off the walls. The three of them turned to see a small form stepping inside, looking around anxiously. Aragorn recognised Pippin's small face and moved forwards to meet him.

"There's a bird," Pippin said quickly, stabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a bird in the courtyard, Strider, and it's carrying a message."

Gandalf's blue eyes flashed dangerously and he stormed forwards, his staff clicking sharply on the marble floor. "Peregrin Took, if you have had any contact with an unknown, potentially malicious messenger-"

"I didn't!" the Hobbit protested. "I did not touch it! Merry is watching over it now, to make sure it doesn't move. It's waiting on the statue in the courtyard. The message has a strange seal."

Aragorn glanced at Gandalf uncertainly. A message from Mordor? But then, Mordor did not use birds to carry messages. Unless it was some kind of trap. He saw his own fears reflected in Gandalf's gaze.

"Lead the way, Pippin," he said at last, breaking the hesitant silence. "We will see."

He placed a hand on his sword, always at his side, and followed Pippin out into the corridors of Minus Tirith.

* * *

When Legolas blinked his way back to the waking world, he was met with a soft, calm silence.

The bed he lay on was warm and comfortable, and succeeded in pulling him back to the cocoon of sleep several times before he managed to hold on to consciousness. He became vaguely aware of a dull throbbing in his chest - a strange sensation, a niggling pain he couldn't quite trace. He was reclining on several pillows, which allowed his eyes to wander the room without needing to get up. He was grateful for that - for some reason, his body felt heavy. He stretched the fingers of one hand experimentally as he took in the white walls, the clear, golden sunlight pouring through the open window, the playful breeze that tugged at his hair. The room was tidy and simple. The only evidence of inhabitation was a collection of bottles, folded cloths, pouches and a mortar and pestle arranged carefully on the desk, and a chair to the left of the bed with a half-flattened cushion on it. The desk and chair and small cupboard in the corner were all crafted from the same dark, polished wood, so glossy that Legolas could almost see his reflection in the surfaces. Some sort of perfume lingered in the air, a musky scent, something close to incense.

It was a very pleasant room to wake up to, but Legolas could not enjoy it. He could not remember how he had come to be there, and that set his nerves on edge. He felt as if a great length of time had passed without him realising, which was similarly unnerving. He could see none of his personal possessions or affects. He crawled through his memories, but was only greeted with a long stretch of darkness. He remembered screaming - a thought that made him shudder - and a great pain that had driven him out of sense and body. To his surprise, he felt that he could remember talking to his father, which was impossible; his father had not left Mirkwood for an age. Odd, disjointed images flickered across his mind - his mother, Estel, his father, his mother's burial, the battle at Pelennor Fields, the sight of maggots and blood... A wide, fiery, leering eye... Legolas felt a shudder run through him and, for the first time, noticed the bandage wrapped around his midriff and the strange, thin, white trousers he was wearing that did not belong to him. He ran a hand over the bandages, frowning. Something was certainly wrong.

He listened to the breeze whistling through the window for a few long minutes before making a decision to move.

He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Even before he had risen to his feet, he knew he had made a terrible mistake. As he reached his full height agony exploded through his chest in shooting jets of fire and darkness blossomed across his vision. His legs crumpled immediately beneath his weight like matchsticks. He felt for a moment that he was spinning through empty air, a leaf severed from a tree during a heavy gust of wind. The next moment he could feel the cool stone floor against his skin and heavy, gasping breaths forcing themselves in and out of his lungs. It hurt to breathe. Panic flooded over him. He could not understand what was wrong with his body. He hadn't felt so ill in all his long years of life, hadn't felt so shaken since the death of his mother... The blazing eye surged in on him once more and, to his shame, he heard himself cry out, his voice hoarse and weak. With a mammoth effort he pushed himself over onto his side, a wave of nausea rushing over him. He could feel bile in his throat and sweat prickling on his brow. Through it all the pain throbbed through him in huge bursts, leaving him dizzy.

Dimly, he realised that he needed help. Something was wrong with him. He needed Estel, or Gimli, or Gandalf, _anybody. _He squinted through the dancing spots before his vision and saw the bedside cabinet near his head. Reaching for it with a shaking hand, he got a grip on the smooth wood and tried to lever himself upright. At once his stomach heaved and pain snapped its teeth closed over his body, forcing him to release his hold and sink back down. He concentrated desperately on controlling the sickness, on pushing the pain out of his head.

_There was a blade forcing its way through his flesh, burning as it came -_

The sound of the door to his room opening nearly made him flinch and he blinked furiously, managing to lift himself up on one elbow. Through the mist before his eyes he made out two large feet approaching.

"Wha- Laddie!"

There was loud clatter. The next second a large figure was crouching next to him, big hands gently pulling him upright into a sitting position. Legolas couldn't hold back a gasp of pain, his head still spinning. He caught a glimpse of a red beard and instantly felt slightly comforted.

"Gimli," he managed, still furious at how pathetic his voice sounded to his own ears.

"Aye, laddie," the Dwarf's voice said brightly. "So you're back on speaking terms with us! Come, can you stand?"

Legolas could not think of anything less appealing than standing apart from admitting to a Dwarf that he didn't feel able. So he nodded shortly, and then promptly felt himself driven away into darkness as Gimli pulled him up to his feet and the pain surged back in on him like a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of the Dwarf folding him into bed and re-covering him with the blankets, talking all the while. He struggled back to awareness.

His vision still hazy but his body now at rest, he was able to blink Gimli into focus. The Dwarf was standing close by, filling a cup with water on the bedside cabinet which he offered. Legolas did not want it, but he took it with shaking fingers and managed a few sips before placing it heavily on the bedside table.

"It's good to see you awake," Gimli said warmly.

His friendliness alone was revealing. Legolas frowned at him, running a hand over his bandages once more, this time with more care. He realised that Gimli was waiting for him to speak and swallowed hard, tried to find words.

"We're in... in Minas Tirith?"

_Valar_, that could not be his voice. It was so quiet, so shaky. He licked his lips, desperately trying to regain his self control. Gimli was nodding.

"Aye, Laddie. The battle was won, despite the price. Among the dead was King Theodan of Rohan, and the Lady Eowyn is still in much the same position as yourself."

_Eowyn._

A sudden image leapt into his mind - Eowyn, dressed as a soldier, falling before the Witch King. He saw the gaping darkness beneath the helmet, felt that icy grip around his throat. A shudder ran over him. He remembered screaming on the ground, pain crawling over him, pain like nothing he had ever felt...

_Avo dhavo am môr, Legolas, enni..._

He realised that Gimli had gripped his shoulder, squeezing it and bringing him back to the present. The Dwarf was surveying him closely, as if ready to sound the alarm at any sign of negativity.

"D'you hear me, Master Elf?"

He nodded, forcing the memories away. He lifted a leaden hand and wiped furiously at the sweat on his brow. Gimli released him.

"I'll send for Aragorn," he said, still watching Legolas cautiously. "You'll stay in bed, agreed?"

Legolas nodded again. "Gimli?" he spoke up as the Dwarf turned for the door. "What of Mordor?"

Gimli paused, one hand on the door knob. His face darkened slightly. "A call was sent out to all able towns for men to ride with us in two days time. Aragorn will lead the Men of Middle Earth in a final siege on Mordor. There we will meet our end, be it dark or victorious."

_Two days._ In the midst of all the confusion and pain, Legolas felt a sudden burst of hope. He had not missed the final battle. After all they had been through, after all they had done... he had not come so far to miss the final moments of Man. He placed a hand against his chest, felt a deep, shuddering darkness like a shard of metal lying within his heart. His body was crumbling around him. But his mind remained present all the same. He looked up to meet Gimli's grim gaze, drawing as much strength and authority into his tone as he could muster.

"I understand. Where are my weapons?"

"Stored with the weaponry the city has left, under lock and key."

"Will you re... retrieve them for me?"

Gimli dropped his hand from the door knob, his bushy eyebrows drawing close together. He took a step back into the room, eyeing the Elf cautiously. Legolas held his stare, lifting his chin. The Dwarf studied him for a few moments longer before speaking, his words slow and deliberate.

"And what would you need them for, laddie?"

"I will need to practise. As you say, we ride in two days."

* * *

Gandalf deemed the bird safe to touch as soon as he looked upon it. It was a small, feathered, pigeon-like animal with bright, beady eyes that watched them carefully as they approached, standing on one leg on the top of the statue, far out of reach of the few townsfolk who had gathered around it uncertainly. Merry stood waiting, his arms folded, apparently trying to exert some kind of control over the situation as the townsfolk leant closer to examine the visitor.

"You see?" Pippin announced. "We haven't touched it."

"There is no threat here," Gandalf said in answer to Aragorn's questioning glance. "It is a bird from Mirkwood."

"Mirkwood?"

The Wizard nodded and began to raise his hand. Aragorn caught at his sleeve. "Can we be sure? It could be a trick."

Gandalf hesitated but then lifted his arm high and whistled low. The bird instantly flew down and perched on his sleeve, holding out one foot. A small roll of paper dangled from its leg. It waited. Aragorn, who had drawn his sword on its approach, let his arm fall and watched as Gandalf's nimble fingers detached the message. Instead of opening it, the Wizard offered it to Aragorn.

"It is a message sent to Gondor, and therefore a message for the King," he explained as Aragorn frowned.

A slight flush of embarrassment stirred in his stomach, but he took the message without argument and examined the seal. It bore Elvish symbols, a sight which comforted him slightly. Glancing up to ensure that the townsfolk had moved on, their curiosity satisfied, he broke the seal and unrolled the message. It was very short, and written in the tongue of Man. He read it twice.

"What is it?" Eomer enquired, hanging back a little from the grey bird, which had taken up residence on Gandalf's arm and was preening its feathers.

"It's a message from the Elvenking, Thranduil," Aragorn replied. As his eyes traced the elegant handwriting on the parchment, he could feel guilt settling in his stomach like a heavy weight. He wet his lips before continuing. "He wishes to enquire after Legolas' health."

He showed the note to Gandalf, who nodded. "You must reply," the Wizard said simply. "Tell him what has occurred."

Aragorn folded the parchment and slid it slowly into his pocket. He felt unable to look anyone in the eye. He knew it was ridiculous - each of them had entered the Fellowship understanding the risks ahead and ready to take them, but the idea of writing to Thranduil to explain that his only son had been mortally injured whilst acting upon Aragorn's own orders filled him with dread. Yes, Legolas appeared to be slowly healing, but even if he did recover, such a wound would leave its mark on his soul for the rest of his days, perhaps even inhibit his immortality.

He realised that Gandalf and the others were watching him, waiting for his response, and he hurriedly agreed. "I will, I will write at once. Will the bird carry my reply?"

Gandalf held out his arm and Aragorn awkwardly took the bird, allowing it to hop onto his clenched fist, its small claws pinching his skin. He inclined his head in farewell and departed from the group, struggling to come up with the correct words to use. His feet carried him towards Legolas' room, as if seeking advice. He did not know how to address an Elvenking. His time with Lord Elrond had been filled with familial affection, and any formalities he had skipped by slipping away early or before Elrond could send for him. He regretted that now, considering contacting his adopted father for advice, but thought otherwise. No one had time to run his errands in these days of trouble.

To his surprise, as he crossed the higher courtyard into the Guest Quarters, he found himself met with a flushed, highly excitable Dwarf leaving the building. Gimli was out of breath from the stairs, his face red. He cried out and snatched at Aragorn's arm, startling the Mirkwood bird.

"Aragorn, laddie! The Elf-"

"What's wrong?" Aragorn's heart leapt in terror, his blood rushing to his head. He should have visited earlier, he should have been present-

"He's awake," Gimli replied, his face splitting in a wide grin. "The Elf is awake!"

Aragorn took a few moments to process his words, and then began to stride towards the Guest Quarters as fast as he could without leaving Gimli behind. The Dwarf trotted to catch up with him, still panting.

"Aragorn, that is not all. He asked-"

"Did he speak?"

"Aye, laddie, he spoke of his weapons."

Aragorn paused as they entered the corridor, turning to frown at Gimli. The Dwarf's eyes narrowed and he shook his head.

"He asked for his weapons, laddie. I believe he wishes to join us as we ride against Mordor."

Aragorn stared at him, the words jarring in his brain. Then he snorted quietly and turned away, heading for the door, the bird fluttering its wings in protest at his sudden movements.

"Well, he cannot," he replied, speaking almost to himself.

He pushed the door open. Upon his entry he was instantly met with two clear blue eyes, finally alive, finally seeing him rather than darkness. Despite Gimli's news, Aragorn felt his spirit soar. He grinned and hurried forwards, ignoring the bird as it flew off to perch on the table, apparently tired of his mis-handling of it.

"_Gwador-nin!_" he greeted warmly. "_Galo Anor erin râd gîn."_

Legolas's lips curved in a small smile, but it quickly faded. He was leaning back against the pillows, his attention focussed on the bandages over his chest. His face still held that terrible greyish tinge and dark smudges lay under his eyes, his breathing was still slightly forced and his hands trembled as they moved, but he was alive. For now, Aragorn was grateful simply for that.

"_Gi suilon, Estel,"_ he replied. "I believe I have you to thank for my life. _Hannon-le."_

Aragorn pretended he did not notice how much Legolas' voice shook. He smiled, coming to a halt beside the bed. Legolas allowed him to feel his brow and measure his heartbeat without complaint, blue eyes watching his every move.

"How do you fare?" Aragorn asked, using the common tongue for Gimli's sake. "Is there much pain?"

Legolas' eyebrow twitched slightly. "A little."

Aragorn translated that to mean a large amount. He did not like Legolas' calm, forced tone. The Elf was attempting to hide from him, and it was not difficult to understand why. He crossed to the room to retrieve the bandages and few herbs he had left.

"It is about time to change your bandages. Would you prefer to have a sleeping draught?"

"That won't be needed."

Aragorn hesitated, but decided to follow the Elf's request. Perhaps it the process would alert him to how badly he had been wounded. He returned with the bandages and glanced up at Gimli, who stood ready on the other side of the bed. Legolas followed his instructions slowly and quietly, his face twisting slightly as he leaned forwards. When Gimli reached to support him he pushed the offered hand down, instead lifting himself upright as best he could. His breathing hitched and Gimli glanced at Aragorn anxiously. Aragorn gave a small shake of his head and proceeded with unwrapping the bandages.

"We've just received word from your father," he said, trying to distract the Elf from the effort of holding himself upright. "He asks after your health. Apparently he has concerns that all is not as it should be."

Legolas only nodded in response, his lips tight. Aragorn finished removing the previous bandages and, as he reached for the herbs, saw Legolas' eyes widen slightly as he looked down at the great wound in his flesh. It had scabbed over greatly, but was still an angry, raw red in colour and surrounded by small purpled lines. Legolas let out a moan as Aragorn touched it, applying the herb paste carefully.

_"Goheno nin," _he apologised softly. "It is necessary, _mellon-nin."_

Legolas did not reply, his eyes closing tightly. Aragorn finished as fast as he could, his steady hands making quick work of the task.

"Your father must be sensitive to your wellbeing," he commented, retrieving fresh bandages. "I will be glad to tell him that you have awoken."

Still he got no response. As soon as he had finished applying the bandages Legolas sank back on the pillows, breathing hard through his nose, sweat gleaming on his face. He blinked hard, as if attempting to regain his composure.

"He will be glad to hear, I'm sure," he said at last as Aragorn disposed of the used bandages, "that his concern is unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" Aragorn turned from the desk to face him. "You were near death, Legolas. When I carried you here there was more blood on the ground than in your veins."

Legolas' gaze flashed briefly with something akin to anger. He looked to Gimli instead of replying, taking a deep breath.

"Did you find my weapons? I will go myself if you cannot."

"You do not need your weapons, Legolas," Aragorn cut in as Gimli opened his mouth. "You will be unable to use them for a while if you wish to heal properly."

"If I am to ride with you in two days time, I must adjust my skills to adjust to my injury."

"You are not to ride with us. You cannot."

There was a tense, long silence. Legolas' eyes were burning, although his face remained still. Aragorn returned his gaze without flinching, his arms folded tightly. Gimli opened his mouth once more, and then closed it again without speaking. Legolas lowered his eyes to his hands, and then abruptly pushed himself upright once more.

"Very well," he said stiffly. "I will get them-"

"Lie still, laddie," Gimli broke in, his voice pained. He pushed Legolas' shoulder until the Elf did as he asked. "I will fetch them for you, if it will improve your mood."

Shooting Aragorn a warning glance, the Dwarf left them. Aragorn returned to Legolas' bedside slowly, heaving a long sigh.

"I take no pleasure in saying such things," he said, his tone softening slightly. "But you cannot join us in battle, my friend. Your body will not endure it. You will not survive."

"If I die in the battle, I will die fighting for Middle Earth," Legolas replied, his voice trembling. His attempt to rise had exhausted him and his eyes had closed tightly.

"You will not live past the first blow, Legolas!" Aragorn reached for his arm, waiting until Legolas looked up at him. "I did not carry you off that battle field, I did not drag you out of Death's very hands, I did not sit with you and listen to your nightmares for you to throw away your life in search of pride and vanity."

He could see that his words stung. Legolas shook his hand off. "I will handle myself," he replied quietly. "I do not fear Death, Aragorn."

"If you think you will help us, you are mistaken. I cannot afford to have my Men looking after you when we are already outnumbered so greatly."

"I need no help."

Aragorn let out a savage bark of laughter. "Stand up," he said coldly. "Stand now."

Legolas looked up at him, his eyes dark. He took a deep breath and pushed back the blankets, swinging his legs slowly over the side of the bed. He closed his eyes, visibly preparing himself, and then pushed off from the bed and rose to his full height. His face quivered as he met Aragorn's gaze, his breath coming hard and fast. Within moments his injured leg, now nearly healed, shook and betrayed him, and Aragorn reached to steady him and guide him back to the bed. Legolas' face was tight with pain but shame glared in his stare, which he directed at the ground rather than at Aragorn.

"Do not ask me to order you as King, Legolas," Aragorn murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You cannot join us in this fight."

"I am not... one of your soldiers," the Elf replied, his voice shaking. "I am your friend. You may not command me as a Man."

His frustration building, Aragorn turned away and gestured to the bird, which flew to his arm obediently. "I am going to write to your father," he called over his shoulder. "Think of him before you sign your death warrant, Legolas."

"My decision is my own, and it has been made, Estel."

Aragorn wanted to shout and scream, but he did not. Instead, he left the room without looking back. All the while he could feel Legolas' eyes on the back of his head, his own blood boiling in his veins.

**Elvish Words:**

My brother - Gwador-nin

May the sun shine on your path - Galo Anor erin râd gîn

I greet you - Gi suilon

Thank you - Hannon-le

Forgive me - Goheno nin

Mellon-nin - My friend

**Only a couple more chapters to go, I think. Thanks for reading, all feedback is appreciated :)**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


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